Snow-white
by guineapiggie
Summary: Post-"Desert Rose"-thingy. I couldn't resist.
1. Snow-white

**Snow-white**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a thing.

_***A/N* First of all, I've only just started to watch this show so I really hope it's all more or less in character. And yes, I've seen the latest scene already… Watching episodes in the right order? What is this sorcery you speak of? Anyway, I watch Doctor Who, I'm one hundred per cent spoiler-proof.  
**__**That scene was too good to miss for a fanfic-maniac like me.**_

_**Also, awfully sorry for the **__very_ _**uncharacteristic language. My mother tongue's German and I pride myself on a halfway convincing English word choice, but I figured if I tried to write in American, it would turn out pretty forced and altogether rather ridiculous, so I decided to ignore their nationality completely. Plus, I mostly watch Mentalist in German. So, again, sorry. Hope it won't bother you too much.**_

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His phone ringed and he jerked it out of his pocket with some desperation. "Lisbon, finally."

"Sorry, Patrick," drawled the voice at the other end that was one hundred per cent not Lisbon's. "Teresa can't come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?"

Dread poured into his veins even before he truly grasped the words. _Teresa can't come to the phone… he's got her phone… Teresa…_

"No? Well, I'll tell her you called."

_He's got Teresa. _

"Wait," he stammered, but the line was dead.

_Teresa._

A little wail reached his ears and it took him ages to realize he was making the sound.

Then he broke into a run. "Rigsby! Cho! Van Pelt!"

"What is it, Jane?" mumbled Rigsby. _How _could they all be so relaxed and tired and how did they stand to not do _anything_ when Lisbon was gone and in danger and - he dared not calculate the probability - maybe dead?

The words fell from his lips, not necessarily in order, but obviously understandable enough to conjure a look of shock on their faces, if only a very poor echo of the oddly white-washed horror he was feeling.

The next minutes were a blur of calls in strained voices, yells that might or might not have been his, running and images of a bloody face mocking his grief, blonde curls soaked with blood, impressions of another woman lying in a pool of blood. Those were definitely his, he concluded. They couldn't be coming from the others.

He sat in the back of one of the black cars, staring blindly out of the window, Van Pelt next to him put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. The motor was humming too loud in his ears and the car shook strangely.

Oh no, right, he was shaking. The car was fine.

The house looked like it had fallen out of an overly-obvious horror movie. He was out of the car before anyone could stop him. While a part of his mind was still progressing the hissed "Jane, let someone with a gun go first!", he was already on the veranda with absolutely no memory of crossing the lawn.

The front door had not been closed properly. He stumbled inside and found himself in total darkness. Somebody gave him a torch, not before he hit his knee hard on a chair, and he hurried after the others.

"Clear," called Rigsby to his left.

"Empty," came it from behind him.

"Clear," Jane muttered after a glance into the kitchen.

Two doors left. Rigsby took the left one, Cho went upstairs and Jane approached the room on the right, suddenly knowing she'd be there. He opened the old door, or rather crashed into it. And there she was, the first thing he saw.

Just like it was Red John's style.

* * *

The scene in front of his eyes was all different, and yet it was so terribly familiar.

"No," he groaned and that ridiculous little word took all the air left in his lungs.

Her face was stark white in the cold light of the torch and her hair and eyelashes stood out jet black against it.

"No. Teresa…" He staggered a few steps forward. His head was swimming.

The blood smeared over her beautiful features, it was so red, so screamingly red…

Jane dropped on his knees next to her outstretched body.

He choked, wanted to cry but his eyes were just stinging, he felt awfully sick. Icy fingers gripped his insides and almost blasted his ribs.

White as snow, black as ebony, red as blood. She was so beautiful...

His fingers crawled to her hand and grabbed it and he was feeling so cold so cold.

She was looking so young, he thought. Much too young to die.

Somewhere beneath the numbness and the horror and the cold and the nausea and the pain something else bubbled to the surface.

The hate tasted like ash. How could anyone do this? How could anyone dare to touch something so pure, stain something so beautiful? How could someone so iridescent just be blown out like a candle?

How was this _fair?_

It was only when he ran a hand tenderly over her face in a hopeless attempt to wipe away the blood that he noticed something was wrong.

The cut in her throat was missing, her wrists too seemed unharmed, and a quick glance over her fragile body proved she was at least not obviously harmed. No bruises around her neck.

His heart throbbed in his ears so he covered her lips with his hand and there it was.

Very, very faint, but she was breathing.

"Teresa," he whispered incredulously and felt for a pulse. It was too slow for his taste, but who cared if it meant her heart was still beating?

"Jane? You okay?" Someone came in and the light of their torch found him, crouched next to Lisbon, grabbing her hand, chuckling softly while tears chased each other across his face.

"Oh God. Lisbon. Is she…?"

"She's alive," Jane muttered and managed to jerk himself out of whatever sort of hysterical fit he was having. "We need to get her into hospital."

"Right. Sure. Ambulance is on its way. Listen, you stay here with her, okay?"

Jane carefully lifted her up and cradled her in his arms.

As if he'd go anywhere.

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	2. Coming Back

**Coming back**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any sort of TV-show, and if I could have one, it would be Doctor Who anyway.

_***A/N* So I've written two little scenes to follow the first chapter since so many people asked for it, this is the weakest so be nice with me... and check back at the weekend for the last chapter!**_

_**And a big thank you to LetMeWalkTheEarthWithYou who gave this a read beforehand!**_

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_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"D'you think she'll wake up soon?"

_Beep._

"The doctor said she would."

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

"I'm getting coffee, want me to bring one for you?"

_Beep. Beep._

"Yeah."

The voices sounded muffled. The only thing that came clearly through the fog was the beeping.

She tried to open her eyes, but needed several attempts even for that.

The room was too bright and it took a while until she grasped where she was.

"Hey," she muttered and Cho looked up.

"Oh, hey boss!" He gave her a smile that made it fairly clear that whatever had happened to her, it had given her team quite a fright.

"How long was I out?" she asked, cursing her voice for sounding so weak.

"Almost eight hours," Cho answered.

"What happened to Partridge?"

"He's dead. Van Pelt is taking care of the paperwork. Rigsby came over an hour ago, he said it was taking ages."

She dropped back on the pillow with a sigh. The memories of last night started to come back to her.

Rigsby came back with two cups of coffee.

"Morning, boss."

"Hm. Morning." Suddenly, she remembered her ringing phone. The argument with Jane… Jane… Oh God, where was Jane? He was hardly going to help Van Pelt with the paperwork, after all. Shouldn't he be there? _Wouldn't_ he be there?

"Where's Jane?"

Cho and Rigsby exchanged a glance and Lisbon tried to ignore the sinking feeling at the sight of it. What had the idiot done to himself? Got himself shot? Or, even worse… killed himself?

"No idea," Rigsby answered slowly and looked around the room as if he expected their consultant to pop up behind the curtain. "The doctor's say he's sat here all the time, didn't say a word. Wouldn't move. He was still here when I came. Don't know where he's gone."

Lisbon exhaled slowly. Okay. He's okay. She was starting to feel rather ashamed of the thought he would have taken his own life just because of her. God, how selfish she could be! Shaking her head, she decided to blame it on the after-efect of the drugs.

"What… did something happen to anyone when you got me out of there?"

"Nobody except Partridge, he was already dead when we got there." Cho said.

"Jane had a total freak-out, mind you, when he got that call," Rigsby added with a shudder.

"What call?"

"Red John called him. No idea what he said, but Jane went white as a sheet when he heard it."

She frowned. "Total freak-out… what's that, speaking of Jane?"

"Let's just say it took us twenty minutes to convince the doctors he'd be fine without any sedation or psychiatrists. We should've never let him come along, he was in such a state when he found you."

"Why?"

Cho snorted and Rigsby answered quietly: "You had a smiley smeared over your face with Partridge's blood and at first we all thought you were dead, too."

"Oh" was all she could muster. Well, she could imagine Jane freaking out at the sight of that.

But, after the first shock (and the sickening thought of a dead man's blood on her skin), she couldn't help a proud little smile.

He barely ever showed it and he'd die before he told her so, but he _did_ care for her in the end.

Caring wasn't really what she was dreaming of, but it was enough for now. Caring was a start.

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	3. Starting Over, Carrying On

**Starting over, carrying on**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own a thing.

_***A/N* I rather like the way this turned out. It's sort of depressing, but I think it does more or less catch the way things are between these two.  
This is the final chapter and I hope you guys enjoyed my story.**_

_**(Do have a look on my other Mentalist stories if you want, though.)**_

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"Hey Jane!" She looked so glad to see him, so genuinely happy he was there to pick her up that he almost forgot how mad he was at her. But only for a second. Then the ice-cold emptiness, the searing pain, the bitter disappointment in the whole bloody world that allowed such things to happen and the crushing fear broke loose again and violently forced their way to the surface.

"For Heaven's sake, what did I tell you, Lisbon?" He took a couple of steps towards her and he could tell by her face that he was seriously frightening her, but that couldn't stop him. "What did I say? I _said _he was gonna come for you, I told you, and now look what happened!"

"I…"

"Everyone thought you were dead, Lisbon, damn it! Do you realize what that means? Dead? Everybody thought we'd never get you out of there alive, _I thought I'd never see you again!" _He swallowed hard and tried to lower the noise level since he supposed the whole hospital had just heard him. "I thought I'd lost you, too, and you've got no idea how that felt."

She just stared at him and he could detect a tear shimmering in her eyes. "Jane, I…"

Not waiting for her to finish her sentence and quite frankly not expecting she ever would, he grabbed her and pulled her close, so close she winced because he was hurting her. He had to force himself to let her go a little.

His boiling anger faded quickly. But the dread of losing her, the only thing left in the world he cared about, wouldn't go away, not now and not in a thousand years.

"That was a stupid thing to do," he muttered in her hair.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He laughed. "I didn't mean you. I should have never told you."

With surprising strength, she wriggled out of his embrace and gave him one of her angry glares. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sighed and ran his hands over his tired eyes. If only he could finally sleep…

"It's supposed to mean that you've been in enough danger as it was, because I was so painfully obvious about caring for you." He didn't miss the disbelieving frown on her face, but went on talking because this was nothing he would discuss with her. "And then, I gave you precious information which made you not only my bespoke torture device but also a threat. It's all my fault, I'm sorry."

"Right," she said with a deadly calm voice. "Go on, claim all the responsibility, that's what you do best, Jane. It was _my _decision to go there. It's hardly _your fault _I'm stupid."

Smiling slightly, he gently shoved her towards the car and answered: "Have it your way, Lisbon. You almost died, I won't argue with you. Not today." He held the door open for her. The passenger door, obviously.

"I'm driving," she declared hotly, but he shook his head and pointed towards the seat, grinning.

"No way."

"But-"

"We're not discussing this."

"Jane!"

"Hush."

~o~o~o~

"So what's the plan?"

He had a vague idea to keep her talking because the moment she fell silent, he would have to turn around and check if she was still there and not dead or his imagination. And then probably crash into a tree or something, which would then lead to both their certain deaths because he was driving much too fast.

Of course, he was not going to tell her about _this _plan.

"First of all, can I sleep at your place tonight?"

"How exactly am I supposed to understand that, Jane?"

Huh. Did that really sound so wrong?

She had probably misunderstood his intentions because of his hoarse voice, but he thought he was doing a fairly good job considering the amount of crying he had done in the last twenty-four hours. Or maybe she had just heard in his voice what he had thought for a _millisecond _and shoved away immediately.

"On the couch."

"Why?"

He couldn't resist a quick glance over his shoulder to see her face, trying to figure whether she was angry.

"Eyes on the road, would you? I'd appreciate it to not die in your car after I survived a serial killer, thank you very much."

Sighing theatrically, he slowed down a bit.

"Please, Lisbon."

"You've got enough money to rent a flat, I don't see why you can't live like normal people."

He went for sympathy. That usually worked. "I just...can't sleep in that house tonight. Please."

"Sleep in the attic. Or at the office."

"Surrounded by photos of smileys, it's just as bad."

"Take them off, then."

He put up his best contrite puppy face. "Please, Lisbon!"

"Fine," she snapped and slapped him on the arm at the sight of his satisfied smile.

~o~o~o~

"Why are you really here, Jane?"

He had plenty of lies set up, but a look on her still far too pale face told him that trying them would do him no good. He would have to tell her the truth. Damn.

"I enjoy the sight of you walking around, breathing and all."

She frowned. "Are you trying to tell me you're following me around just so you can see me…? I'm fine, Jane, I was out cold for a while, but I'm fine now. No need to stalk me, I won't faint or have a fit or something."

Damn, couldn't the woman take a hint?

"No, but I might. I keep seeing you there, with the… the blood on your face, looking very _dead, _did I mention? Not good for sleeping."

She had taken to staring now. It seemed to surprise her, shock her, even, that he was being honest.

Well, he couldn't blame her. It shocked him, too.

"Jane…"

"Don't worry about me," he said cheerily, waving her worried glance away, and dropped on the couch. "I'm fine here."

The whole conversation was ridiculous, they seemed to have each taken the role of the other, acting like he'd been the one abducted and knocked out for hours on end.

"You want a… cup of tea or something?", she asked lamely, avoiding his eyes.

"Sure, stay put, I'll make some." He got up, pushed her into a chair muttering something about rest and doctor's orders and fled into the kitchen.

Even making tea turned out to be hard because the wall between them was all he needed to prove his theory right. The moment he couldn't see her anymore he felt a diffuse uneasiness creeping up on him, developing into a rather serious breathing issue when he forced himself not to peak around the corner.

The question whether he was completely nuts or whether it was okay for someone with a massive trauma to behave like that didn't make it much easier, either.

"Tea's ready."

It was ridiculous really how relieved he was to find that she was still there.

"Thanks." She clutched her cup and stared darkly into the steam. "I can't remember a thing."

"Sorry?"

"Red John. He was _there_, wasn't he, he was there with me and I didn't even see him, or if I did, I forgot…"

He knew she was beating herself up for his sake, because she knew how much he had hoped there would be at least one good thing about the whole affair.

"Someone drugged you with chloroform, Lisbon, probably just a cloth over your face from behind, of course you didn't see him. He's too careful for that."

"I just don't understand." Her voice sounded a bit lost and very far away. "I mean, why lure me there, why kill Partridge, why not kill me?"

"To tell me that I'm powerless and just a pawn in his play, to threaten that next time, it'll be your blood on the wall, to get us back into the news…" He bit back the last idea he had about that and took a sip of his tea, burning his tongue. _He's showing me that I still have a weak spot._

She continued to stare gloomily into her cup for a while. "Partridge said something before he died."

"Something useful?"

"_Tyger, tyger."_

"Just more of the same, then."

"Suppose so."

Her beautiful green eyes still seemed far too dark to him, and he hated Red John even more (if that was even possible) for all the shadows he had cast in them. But she didn't know that and he wouldn't tell her. Because knowing just how much he loved her and yet knowing it could never be enough, not even that, not even if she could love him back - it would break her heart. And that would break his all over again.

He was in pain, but he'd been for a very long time and if it meant he could spare her the misery, it didn't matter.

He didn't deserve her and he would never ever do this to her, he would stay abstinent and he would keep her at these few inches of distance left between them.

But he couldn't let her go, either.

He couldn't stop to drag her along with him into dangerous and terrible things and he couldn't stop being possessive and overly protective. He couldn't stop acting like he was keeping her safe when the truth was that he was hurting her more than anyone else in the world and he was basically claiming all her pain for himself.

He was too weak, too broken to lose her and his only hope was that, one day, she would find the strength to let _him _go and run away from him as far as she possibly could to stop him from hurting her time and time again.

A small, selfish part of him hoped she never would.

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